THE moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips,The water makes a quietness of sound;Night is an anchoring of many ships Home-bound.
There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin The silence into nets, and tenanters Move softly in.
I step on shadows riding through the grass, And feel the night lean cool against my face;And challenged by the sentinel of space, I pass.
